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Indonesia, babe. Honey. It’s been a year and a half since we first got together and it’s been great. There’s been tough times too, we both know it, but I’ve honestly fallen head over heels for you.

But, I’m sorry, I have to bring this up. I know it’s hard to talk about and we’ve been skirting around the issue from that first smoggy Jakarta night when we met. I’ve got to put down an ultimatum here. If we’re going to stick together, you’ve gotta do one thing for me babe. Stop trying to kill me.

I mean, those early days were tough. I honestly wondered if I was crazy, giving you a chance. I barely got to see anything except your bathrooms for the first three months while you bombarded me with gifts of bacteria and bugs. Talk about making a girl wait!

On my first real date going out somewhere nice here, I ended up with a bruised and gashed shin in Bogor after the broken piece of concrete covering a drain on the sidewalk gave way. It was supposed to be a day dedicated to sipping fruit juice under the trees at the botanical gardens, but it ended up with me all alone, back in the bathroom with a bottle of antiseptic, trying to save my bloodied leg from further damage.

Then there was that taxi accident. I mean, sure, I should be happy that I only got rather bad whiplash and a slight concussion — and that the motorcyclist we hit was well enough to walk away from the scene and try and hit me up for money even though I was merely a passenger. But where I’m from, people consider that kind of treatment to be abusive.

I’ve given you so many chances. I’ve tried to get involved. I’ve showed up at cultural events, despite occasionally acquiring heatstroke in the process. I’ve tried to learn your lingo. I’ve tried to be interested in the family conversations, even though I don’t understand much.

I’ve been an attentive partner, loyal too. You’d never catch me recommending that friends hook up with Malaysia instead of you, even though I’m reluctant to share. Polygamy and corruption and other stuff like that isn’t my shtick, but I only nag you about it a little bit on Twitter.

I can’t tiptoe around this anymore though. I have to say it. If you don’t start sorting out your public safety issues, I will have no choice but to walk out that door … and go to the airport.

I mean, a girl likes to be swept off her feet, that’s for sure, but not in a crowd crush. I’ve emerged from three or more of your events covered in bruises, sometimes bleeding, thanks to your overly enthusiastic friends.

On the Prophet’s birthday in Yogyakarta this year, my friend and I almost got trampled by elephants. Seriously. Elephants!

Lucky you managed to charm my friend with your beaches and welcoming nature or we would have had trouble on our hands. Her mom is friends with my mom and if they got talking about Indonesia and words like “disoriented elephants paraded through huge crowds with no barriers” started to get thrown around, mother dearest would be calling the embassy to have me forcibly removed faster than you can say “paid protesters.” Then we’d really be through.

The earthquake and disaster stories in the news really don’t help in getting my family to support us being together either, I have to say, even though I know you can’t help it.

It’s hard for me to say all of this because the big, crazy mess is part of what I love about you. But just getting from point A to point B with you some days can be downright terrifying. Buses and bemos hurtling around curvy mountainous roads, motorcycle taxis dodging fume-belching buses, cars and hundreds of other bikes. Even walking can be scary. You never know when you’re going to have to share the path with, vehicles or huge pans of scalding hot oil.

Indonesia, honey, please don’t get upset. I still love you and want to stick it out. I know you don’t mean to hurt me and after the paratyphoid incident and three respiratory infections in 2009, you have treated me a little better this year. I’m only saying all this because I want everyone else to love you as much as I do.

I also don’t want to die just yet.

Ashlee Betteridge is a freelance writer and former Jakarta Globe copy editor.